


old navy can eat my schlong

by orphan_account



Series: in which john acts like a little priss in bed and bro is his bitch forever [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM kinda, M/M, Omorashi, john is some himedere ass mfer, public, sub!bro, uhh i think thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 08:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13337304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bro takes John to the mall and totally ignores his own body's basic goddamn needs. John takes advantage of the situation.





	old navy can eat my schlong

As a dude who grew up poor as dirt, you’ve grown to really love spoiling your boyfriend.

Like... really love it. Your dynamic is a little unorthodox, even for the D/s community, but it works for the two of you. You love being able to spoil him, and he loves being able to act like a little brat every now and again. It must be an act of rebellion against his clean-cut, well-mannered father.

You sure as hell don’t mind. Being bossed around makes you feel safe.

Your trips to the mall have been getting longer and longer, and it’s like a dream come true. You’re fairly subtle about the nature of your relationship when you’re in public, but that doesn’t stop him from teasing you and ordering you around every chance he gets. It’s hard to think about anything else when he’s giving you a cocky grin as you buy him some frivolity that he absolutely doesn’t need.(edited) Unfortunately, the needs of your dumbass lumbering body falls safely into the category of “anything else.” You’ve sucked down a slushie and two sodas in the last hour in an effort to keep yourself hydrated. Keeping up with John would be an easy feat if he weren’t bouncing around like he owned the damn mall.

And if you weren’t holding his bags.

But he is jumping around like a squirrel hopped on Adderall, and you are lugging around his million bags full of complete nonsense, so you’ve been pretty thirsty.

Naturally, it isn’t until you’ve both taken a seat for some well-deserves giant pretzels and lemonade that you catch on to the signals your body has been sending you for the past hour or so. For a few minutes, you’re sure you can keep your cool and listen to John gush about the game he’s going to tear into as soon as you’re home. He’ll keep on babbling until he’s dragging you out the front door of the mall and into your truck, and you’ll sneak off into the bathroom while he’s busy humping the leg of his Nintendo DS.

Quickly, though, you realize that plan isn’t going to fly. You press your lips into a tight line, squeezing your thighs together under the table. John, chin resting sweetly on the ball of his hand, elbow rudely (adorably) on the table, trails off mid-sentence. He looks you over, sapphire eyes burning into your crawling skin, and gives you the kind of smirk he usually reserves for your shared bedroom.

You are in deep, deep shit.

You make a move to excuse yourself, belt uncomfortably tight against your abdomen, but John’s socked foot digs into your crotch and you’re stopped in your tracks. You shoot him a glare and he snickers, putting his foot back in his shoe where it belongs. That little snot knows exactly what’s up. You clear your throat.

“I was thinking of stopping at Old Navy,” he says, cutting you off before you even start speaking, “they usually have some pretty cute button-ups in my size. But if the old man’s too tired, I get it. We can go home like big lame babies.”

The lord is testing your will today. Or maybe it’s just John testing your will. With the way he gets into body worship, you wonder if there’s really a difference anymore.

“I’m good,” you groan through gritted teeth. “Old Navy, huh? I’ll get you the cutest damn outfit in the store.”

“Great!” He beams at you, but that mischievous glint remains in his eyes. He crumples up the paper his pretzel was wrapped in and makes a point of slurping the dregs out of his lemonade cup as loudly as humanly possible.

You gulp.

It may not be saying much, but this is going to be the longest trip to Old Navy of your life.

John takes forever trying on each shirt, and you know he’s doing it to torment you. You’re trapped outside the changing room, hangers on each arm, separating the ones he likes from the ones he doesn’t.

You’re starting to squirm. It’s nothing short of humiliating. The other people waiting outside the dressing rooms are starting to give you weird looks. The next time John opens the door to get your opinion on some dopey button-down, you’re going to use your superior height and the element of surprise to push your way in there with him so you can rub your thighs together in peace.

“How’s this one? I really like the cactus patter—“ but before he can finish, you’re pushing your way inside and latching the door. It’s fairly spacious, so it’s not a tight squeeze to fit the both of you in there, but you still feel a little claustrophobic. It must be your already-shot nerves. You set the armfuls of hangers down on the bench and lean back against the wall, tipping your chin up as you cross one leg over the other.

“Did I tell you you could come in here?” You can hear a pet name hanging off the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. The changing room is a fairly fancy one, basically a whole room of its own without any space between the wall and the ceiling or floor, but John keeps his voice down anyway. There’s no telling how thin these walls are.

As such, when a whine threatens to claw its way out of your throat, you force it right back down. You shake your head in response to his question.

“Then why did you come in?” You gulp, resisting the urge to grab at the front of your jeans. Now wouldn’t be a great time to press your luck— you should be happy that you can at least writhe without strangers glaring at you.

“...S’getting bad, young master,” you murmur. He likes it when you play servant, so that’s exactly what you’re going to do. Your hands rub restlessly at the tops of your thighs. He just smiles coyly up at you. You swear he’s taunting you. (Of course he is— this is John Egbert you’re dealing with. He’s a snarky little prick even when he’s not playing a scene.) “Aw, poor big guy,” he croons, sauntering the two steps forward it takes to reach you. He pushes a hand against your abdomen. You gasp.

“Typhoon,” you hiss, and he yanks his hand away. He reaches up to cup your cheek, giving you a cocky smirk. He’s still in his role, but he heard your signal loud and clear: slow down.

“Alright, okay. Lemme get changed back into my own shirt and we can head to a bathroom proper after we pay. Sound good?” You nod. You’re not sure he’s going to let you walk away from this scene dry, but you’d at least prefer to be in a bathroom. Pissing in a changing room is just bad form.

It only takes him a minute or two to get changed and gather (read: pile into your arms) the few things he likes enough to buy, but it feels like an hour. The taunting thought of relief is the only thing your mind can focus on right now.

One more swipe of your debit card and another bag slung on your arm later, John is guiding you down one of the narrow hallways of the shopping mall. You pass by some water fountains before John stops to deliberate. What could he possibly be considering right now??? There’s only one men’s bathroom in this hallway, and it’s right there, and he’s—

—grabbing your hand, and leading you into the single-stall family restroom.

Oh. That’s a pleasant surprise.

John sidles up to you, hands tracing over your chest. “So,” he starts, low and sultry in that way that always sends blood rushing to your freckled cheeks, “one to ten. How bad is it?”

You consider saying ten, but you figure a ten would be reserved for a dark patch in your jeans. You’re not quite there... yet. You swallow hard, hand pressed to the V where your leg and your pelvis meet. “E...Eight? Nine? Bad. It’s bad, sir.”

John seems to get a kick out of that. He tries his hand against your abdomen again, looking up at you carefully this time, but you don’t give him your safeword. You just shudder underneath him and succumb to the urge to grab at yourself like a child.

“Such a good boy for me, holding on for so long after you’ve had so much,” John cooed. His voice drips sickly sweet, condescending in all the ways that make your heart flutter. A moan pushes past your tightly-closed lips.

“P-Please, young master, I— I really, really can’t hang on much longer.” Your voice is low and husky. John seems please as punch.

“I know.”

That little bastard. Your grip at the front of your pants tightens, but he quickly tears your hand away and pins it to the wall. He’s shorter than you, sure, but he definitely inherited his father’s strength. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your throat as a spurt leaves a dark spot on the front of your already-dark jeans. John uses his free hand to rub at it with his palm.

“There we go. Y’know, if you have to go so bad, nobody’s stopping you. You can just let go.” John’s ministrations, the way he’s rubbing at you through your jeans, through the jeans you’ve already left proof of your inability to control yourself on, leaves you out of breath. Another spurt escapes you, this one right against John’s hand. He clicks his tongue at you derisively. You would be hard as a goddamn rock right now if you didn’t have to piss so bad.

“Still trying to hang on? We can fix that.” He removes his hand from your pants and digs the heel of it into your abdomen. Your knees almost buckle. The dull sting of pressure forces a stream, the hiss of liquid on denim almost loud enough to drown out your panting breaths. The sound of your shame splattering against tile is deafening.

John starts to rub at you through your jeans again, seemingly uncaring that his hand is getting just as soaked as you are. He murmurs sweet encouragements to you as his other hand strokes at your chest, but you’re too lost in the relief that fills the space quickly emptying in the pit of your stomach to decipher any of it. You let out a sigh that devolves into a wanton moan. John fucking loves it. He presses kisses to your shoulders and chest, rubbing at your half-hard dick through sodden fabric, and you swear you’ve died and gone to heaven. You haven’t felt this kind of blissful relief since John had you edging for nearly two hours, hands and knees on the bed, face shoved into—

Actually, you’re not going to think about that right now. You’re not one to turn down public sex, but John has finally extracted himself from you and you have to scramble to stay upright on your wobbly knees.

You quirk an eyebrow when you see him rummaging through his Ghostbusters backpack. Your jeans and socks are starting to cool, now, and you’re suddenly not quite so turned on anymore.

“Ah ha!” Your eyes widen at the little vocalization. You swear you’re about to have a fucking stroke.

From his bag, John pulls out a towel, a fresh pair of sweatpants, clean socks, and a pair of your tennis shoes. The shit-eating grin he gives you is the most infuriating thing you’ve ever seen in your life. It makes you want to drop to your knee and propose.

This little motherfucker had been planning this the _whole time._

Your name is Bro Strider, and you are John Egbert’s bitch forever. God _damn._


End file.
